


every action has an equal and opposite reaction

by akanemnida



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Chaos Ensues, Friendship, Introspection, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Self-Indulgent, Strangers to Lovers, Unreliable Narrator, a sakusa character study but not really, lots and lots of metaphors, miya atsumu is a commercial model, my interpretation of the sakuatsu relationship, physics analogies, sakusa kiyoomi thinks atsumu is hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25760554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akanemnida/pseuds/akanemnida
Summary: Miya Atsumu gets a modeling contract with Calvin Klein, which sets Kiyoomi's heart in motion.(Or: Sakusa Kiyoomi realizes that the rules governing the universe are absolute rubbish at explaining matters of the heart.)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 132
Kudos: 2593
Collections: Favorites, SakuAtsu Fics, So beautiful It makes me want to cry, sakuatsu/, ~SakuAtsu~





	every action has an equal and opposite reaction

**Author's Note:**

> One day, I asked my twitter timeline: what commercial endorsements would Atsumu have? And Louise (@preskita) said, _Calvin Klein_. This fic is the product of that brainrot, some weird ideas related to physics of all things, and the many, many Sakuatsu thoughts I hold close to my heart.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this journey.

Sakusa Kiyoomi learned the basics of Newton’s laws of motion at age twelve in the sixth grade. He sat at the back of the classroom because he was freakishly tall for his age, and instead of dozing off like his classmates surrounding him, he sat attentive while taking in every word his teacher said.

Even as a child he liked the definitiveness of things, finding pleasure in seeing things to their end. He took to heart that if a process is done to its completion, outcomes should be satisfactory. The laws of motion dictated how the universe responds based on forces applied. Basic physics gave him the guidelines of what to expect from the world, giving him an anchor that tethered him to reality.

Out of the laws, he’d liked the first one the best: unless an external force acts upon an object, the object would simply continue on its path. He finds it applicable in all scenarios: a fierce southpaw serve would lead to a point unless it is received, people will continue to dry their hands improperly unless they are told off, and he’ll continue anything and everything he is currently doing unless he stops or is stopped. At the ripe old age of twenty-two, Sakusa Kiyoomi knows himself enough to know that he is slave to inertia, believing in the laws of motion in the way others believe in gods or their star signs. 

So when Miya Atsumu, his teammate and self-proclaimed setter extraordinaire, gets a phone call from a Calvin Klein representative, he isn’t surprised to say the least. It’s the natural course of action, how things are supposed to progress considering none of the volleyballs Miya Atsumu had taken to the face managed to irreparably damage his facial features. Though it wasn’t necessarily twenty-two year old Kiyoomi’s opinion (he’s admittedly biased; his somewhat baseless animosity did no favors for either his attraction or to his eyesight), the Miya twins had been considered by the general population as handsome since they were fifteen, after they each hit their second growth spurt. Kiyoomi once heard that a Uniqlo agent begged Miya Osamu to not quit, to move on to professional volleyball because having twins in magazine spreads was sure to attract attention, but that an onigiri shop owner wouldn’t have the same allure as a professional volleyball player.

Both twins had rejected that offer.

Miya Atsumu had been sponsored by Puma since he was nineteen, had been in several advertising campaigns as a member of the Japan national volleyball team. Kiyoomi swears he doesn’t keep count, but he knows offhandedly that Atsumu’s face had been the subject of three _Volleyball Monthly_ covers so far.

Three days after the initial phone call, Miya Atsumu signs the modeling contract.

To Kiyoomi, it’s really not a big deal. Signing for an ad campaign with a multi-national brand is merely a point in the upward trajectory of the setter’s off-season side job. Getting better deals with bigger brands for more money is expected, especially since Miya had been modeling for several years now. And when his teammates surround the setter and gush about how Atsumu is now a bona-fide star, Kiyoomi could only roll his eyes.

“Of course they’d sign him,” he says, voice flat, with the singular purpose of breaking up commotion in the locker room. He doesn’t think he can take it if he hears another person gush about how amazing Miya is. He barely ever speaks, so everyone stops to listen. “I’ve known him since we were fourteen; Miya keeps getting more handsome and he played internationally last year. Of course a big brand would notice his existence.”

Kiyoomi slings his bag on his shoulder, spins on his heels and leaves. From the corner of his eyes he sees Miya staring at him, mouth agape.  
  


* * *

For most of the years he’s known the setter, Miya Atsumu had sported the same shade of mustard-yellow hair. It’s a color that only the most handsome of people could pull off, and as an objective fact, Kiyoomi had long since accepted that Miya is genetically blessed. He really is: he has a strong jawline, thick eyebrows, and wide, expressive eyes. A nose bridge a plastic surgeon would kill for, a forehead that was neither too large nor inexistent. Pecs and abs and strong and sturdy thighs that were products of over ten years of high-level volleyball training.

Kiyoomi refuses to consider Miya’s mouth because all words that spill out of it are irritating. He isn’t blind, he’s just biased.

Miya Atsumu had hair the color of piss for most of the decade they spent knowing each other, so when he enters the locker room only to find a head of hair standing right in front of Miya’s locker, the first thing Kiyoomi notes is that this man’s hair color, while still blonde, isn’t quite right. The mystery man is exactly the same build as Miya, exactly the same height, had the same sturdy-looking shoulders and thighs. But this man’s hair isn’t piss-colored. It’s lighter, paler, easier on the eyes, like someone submerged his head in toner and didn’t let him afloat until his hair was acceptable for societal consumption.

“Miya?” he asks tentatively, and the man with the unfamiliar hair color turns slightly to look at him from above his shoulder. And: it really is Miya, with the strong eyebrows and high cheekbones. The new hair color suits him well, but most of all it’s the styling that takes Kiyoomi aback. His hair is gelled, parted carefully to the right and bangs slightly lifted to reveal the perfect amount of forehead.

It’s nice.

“Morning, Omi-kun,” the man says, and more than the other things he’s noticed, it’s the use of the nickname that confirms the mystery man’s identity.

“Good morning,” Kiyoomi responds curtly, opening his duffel bag to retrieve his jersey. He pulls the shirt over his head, cloth muffling his voice as he speaks. “You got new hair?”

“Yeah,” Miya answers. “Calvin Klein rep told me that my old hair color was unacceptable, so they sent me to a stylist in Shinsaibashi to get everything touched up.”

Kiyoomi fixes the hem of his shirt, looks at Miya immediately after. He continues to ramble. “T’be honest, Omi-kun, I don’t even know what’s wrong with the last color. I didn’t even want to, got so used to the last color and bleaching hurts like _hell_ —”

 _Your last hair color was the color of piss. Everything was wrong with it_ , Kiyoomi thinks, his brain-to-mouth filter being the only thing maintaining their decent setter-spiker relationship. He looks at the setter, as is polite when others are speaking, only to see Miya tugging on an errant strand of hair that wouldn’t stick to the rest of his bangs. Atsumu attempts to card five fingers through his hair only to get stuck in a sea of product.

Kiyoomi’s breath catches in his throat at the sight. The new hair color is different, but combined with the shit-ton of product and the rare shyness that comes with a new hairstyle, this is one that suits Miya Atsumu completely.

There is a reason for the dryness in his throat, another reason for his refusal to recognize it. Inertia: he will never acknowledge it unless something forces him to.

“It suits you, Miya. It looks good,” Kiyoomi says, finishing up the lacing on his shoes. He’s blunt as always, able to hide but unable to lie. The slight tan of Atsumu’s face takes on a pink hue. Kiyoomi knows for sure that he is the cause.

He adds an “I’m sure your photoshoot would go well” for good measure before leaving the locker room.

(The thought that goes unacknowledged is this: your new hair makes me feel wrong.)  
  


* * *

Life goes on. Despite the huge commotion over his upcoming Calvin Klein endorsement, the fanfare lasted all of two days before the idea became a forgotten background thought. Kiyoomi only remembered it when he missed three training sessions over the course of the off-season— _I’ve a photoshoot, Cap’n Meian, sorry ‘bout that!—_ but beyond that and the blonde hair overloaded with a ton of product, Miya Atsumu for the most part remains as just Miya Atsumu, starting setter for the MSBY Black Jackals and the reigning second-best server in the league.

There are, however, small shifts in the fabric of Miya’s existence that can be attributed to the modeling contract.

For starters, he starts wearing perfume.

“The company sent it to me for free,” Miya admits sheepishly, rubbing a palm against the back of his neck after Hinata points it out one morning. “Would be a waste if I don’t use it. Shouyou-kun, you want a bottle? I’ve loads of the tiny tester bottles…”

He tunes out their conversation, focusing instead on running a lint roller across his shirt. Miya’s new perfume isn’t unpleasant, but it’s a stark difference from the scent of sweat mixed with laundry detergent that he’d come to associate with the setter. It’s one that he’d inadvertently smelled every time they had to pull off double blocks in training and during Friday night team dinners in small _izakaya_ s and they have to sit so close together that their knees would touch.

Knowing Miya Atsumu’s scent isn’t a product of fascination with the setter or anything ridiculous like that. Kiyoomi simply has a sensitive nose. Hinata smells like cheap sunblock, Meian smells like his son’s baby powder, and Bokuto smells like Axe body spray. It’s just.

Whether the change feels like a loss or a win or is value-neutral is something Kiyoomi is still figuring out in his mind.

Miya Atsumu used to smell exactly like the detergent he uses for his bedsheets, which means he really didn’t mind it that much when situations would force Miya to invade his personal space. His brain would focus away from the negatives, instead latching onto the familiarity of the scent. Now, when Miya leans over Kiyoomi’s shoulder to look at his iPad so that they can both watch Brazil’s plays or when they collide in practice due to a failure to communicate during a serve receive, the scent that wafts through the air is no longer one that reminds him of his comfort objects. Miya now has a distinct Miya smell. Despite that, Kiyoomi still lets Miya lean on his shoulder when he gets too tipsy in the aforementioned _izakaya_ s.

His underwear brand also changes.

It’s a fact Kiyoomi is privy to because their default rotation has him standing behind Miya for several ticks, and because setters usually positioned themselves directly in front of the net anyway. He’d caught glimpses of the black band with the Calvin Klein brand name every single time his shirt would ride up along his torso, which was—honestly, it happened most of the time, because Miya is an excellent setter who tended to give it his all. Every toss has him stretching his arms to his limits.

This observation is not a product of anything perverse. Kiyoomi merely has eyes which he refuses to use in the locker rooms because Miya isn’t averse to walking around wearing only his white, skin-tight briefs with the thick, brand-name band. In those instances, Kiyoomi politely turns away.

Third is an increase in Miya’s self-consciousness. Kiyoomi had known him since they were teenagers, which means that he’d been exposed to Miya Atsumu at the peak of his brazenness, the boy who would glare at fans who came to matches specifically to cheer him on. During the four years he spent playing on the intercollegiate circuit (away from Miya, for once in their lives), somehow, early adulthood had taught the other man the basic human emotion of shame.

It’s an insecurity that only ever expresses itself outside the volleyball court. On the court, Miya Atsumu is strong and confident and knows exactly how good he is. Outside, probably because he’d lost the shield of having a twin brother who would cover for his idiocy, Miya Atsumu would prefer to just do things perfectly to avoid unnecessary regret. Sometimes, it results to him being an anxious mess.

The modeling contract seemed to increase this performance anxiety.

He had to deal with self-conscious Miya on the day before his second photoshoot. He had been practicing a new serve he’d been planning to debut this season, and Kiyoomi, out of benevolence and his own desire for self-improvement, volunteered to receive them.

Practice goes well: half of Miya’s serves ricochet in a perfect arc off his reddened arms, the other half confuses Kiyoomi completely to the point that not even him diving could stop the ball from hitting the ground. They wrap up extra nighttime practice, he drowns in the feeling of his own self-satisfaction—it was a really good practice day—that it takes him a few seconds to register that Miya is more exhausted than usual. He’s panting heavily, leaning against the same wall that Kiyoomi’s water bottle stood against. Kiyoomi picks up his bottle to take a much-needed gulp of water, looks around and doesn’t see the black-and-maroon Inarizaki thermos that Miya takes his sports drinks from. He considers the pros and cons of letting the tired setter drink from his bottle. He doesn’t usually share drinks—swapping spit is disgusting—but there definitely are more cons to having Miya die with him as witness.

Kiyoomi needs his setter for his debut V.League season, after all.

He presses the bottle against Miya’s forehead. Condensation drips onto Miya’s skin. “Drink.”

“No,” he answers while looking up at him, though his eyes seem to have difficulty focusing.

“What do you mean _no_?” Kiyoomi answers, an edge of irritation in his voice. “You’re a professional athlete, you know that if you sweat you need to replace the fluids, I can’t believe I have to explain this to you—”

“’M not stupid, Omi-kun,” Miya snaps, except the bite is lost and the words are instead laced with fatigue. “Just—dehydrating.”

“Obviously, you’re dehydrated,” Sakusa answers flatly, sitting on the empty spot beside Miya. “Which is why, drink.”

“Not dehydrated. _Dehydrating_. There’s a difference.”

Kiyoomi is barely able to restrain his sarcasm. “Is that so.”

“Like—the photoshoot people told me that if I don’t drink water for an entire day before the shoot, my muscles would look more defined, y’know? Like. My abs would look better. Something like that.” Miya takes Kiyoomi’s bottle but doesn’t make any move to open it, instead holding the bottle tightly in his hands as if the moisture wetting his palms would do something to quench his thirst.

The pieces in his head all click into place to reveal the big picture, which was, well, _stupid_. Here Atsumu was, after an hour and a half of extra nighttime practice. On top of an afternoon practice match. And _on top of that_ , Sakusa knows his teammates’ schedules well enough to know that Miya Atsumu does strength training in the gym every Wednesday morning without fail.

“You’re telling me you haven’t had a drop of water the entire day,” Sakusa says, initial irritation making way to full-on exasperation. “It’s not like you _need_ that dehydration bullshit.”

“Whoa, Omi-kun, you’re cursing now,” Miya says with a weak laugh. “Am okay, I promise, ‘s only a couple more hours then I can sleep this thirst off.”

“I really hate it when people don’t take care of themselves and almost die in the middle of a gymnasium floor, Miya,” Sakusa answers tersely. A few seconds of silence, and then he follows up with a firm instruction. “Drink.”

“I’m not allowed to,” Miya whines. “You think I’m doing this because it’s fun? The camera lady will be so upset tomorrow if I drink anything.”

He then realizes that this is one of Miya’s frequent anxiety sessions, which means that this isn’t a situation wherein Kiyoomi can get what he wants by acting personally offended and upset. 

(Since when did he care about the things Miya does and does not do?)

“They won’t be able to tell, Miya.”

“Of course they’d be able to tell, and the photos would look terrible, and I’ll regret ever signing this contract in the first place—”

“You’re a professional athlete. Your abs look fine. Your thighs, too,” Kiyoomi says, instead approaching the situation by attempting to soothe his insecurities. He stands up from his position, continuing to talk without looking behind him as he walks towards the locker room door. He leaves his still half-full bottle with the setter. “You’ve been modeling for years. You always look good.”

Miya lets out a faint, squawking sound. Kiyoomi still doesn’t look back.

He wasn’t being dishonest, and Miya of all people would know that he never says anything that isn’t the truth.

The next day, Miya misses morning practice because of his photoshoot. Kiyoomi fails to notice the bottle resting on the space in front of his locker, its cap only partially screwed. Kiyoomi opens the door and the force of the swing causes the bottle to tip over. Not a single drop of water spills out.

* * *

The realization that Kiyoomi is attracted to men came to him on an unassuming Friday afternoon during his first appearance in the summer national inter-middle volleyball tournament. It comes in the form of Ushijima Wakatoshi, one year his senior and already close to clearing six feet tall. Attraction to the older spiker did not come from anything as superficial as visuals: the man dried his hands on a dark blue handkerchief and for the first time in his life, Kiyoomi felt butterflies invade his stomach. He locked eyes with the other boy, exchanging brief pleasantries before going about his own business. Realizing that Ushijima Wakatoshi had a low, rumbly voice and dark eyes only added to the allure.

It’s not that Kiyoomi ever dismissed the idea of liking girls. It’s that Ushijima Wakatoshi made him feel something in that moment for the very first time, and Ushijima Wakatoshi is undoubtedly a boy.

Not one to run away from things that he wants, over that weekend Kiyoomi made moves to befriend the famous ace from Sendai, getting his number and progressing from _Ushijima-san_ to _Wakatoshi-kun_ in one fell swoop. He learns a lot about him through the text messages they’d exchange over the next few months: Wakatoshi was already promised a full scholarship to Miyagi’s best volleyball high school. Wakatoshi’s father had left him when he was younger, but he’s largely the reason why he plays today. Wakatoshi wishes that the best setter in Miyagi would come to Shiratorizawa next year.

Sensing the tell-tale signs of imminent heartbreak, Kiyoomi kills off the butterflies before they can take control. They meet again in the spring tournament, and Kiyoomi is able to hold Wakatoshi’s gaze without his heart threatening to leap out of his ribcage.

During joint training camps, Sakusa receives Wakatoshi’s serves. In his mind, he soliloquizes: _the ball represents the feelings you gave me. I don’t want them anymore._ The spin of the southpaw serve hurts him a little. The ball clears the net, landing cleanly beside Wakatoshi’s feet.

Killing off the butterflies does not kill off his attraction to men. Without his tunnel vision focusing on Ushijima, his hormone-addled teenaged brain kept searching for targets to focus on. Seeing broad shoulders and nice thighs sets off countless pings on his radar, except Kiyoomi had the unfortunate tendency of staring at an attractive boy long enough either to see him manhandle a teammate, or worse, stick a finger up his nose. Kiyoomi values second impressions as much as he does the first; points of attraction become swiftly cancelled by various turn-offs and the level of his infatuation returns to its base value of zero.

Miya Atsumu, together with his twin brother, enters his life in his third year of middle school, during Yako Junior High’s first appearance in the national scene. The twin brother setter-spiker duo takes the middle school volleyball scene by storm. During one of the lull periods in between his own team’s matches, he trudges over to the side of the stadium wherein the Miya twins were playing, excusing himself from his teammates under the guise of opponent scouting.

Even with baby fat still obscuring their jawlines and their cheekbones, Kiyoomi could tell that the twins are handsome, almost exactly his type. _And there are two of them_ , his brain unhelpfully bleats. _Isn’t that more exciting?_

Unfortunately, his seat was in an area close enough to the court. Kiyoomi manages to hear words come out of Miya Atsumu’s mouth.

_You can’t even connect with my toss, scrub? Why are you even on the court in the first place?_

Kiyoomi’s middle school attraction to Atsumu lasted for all of two minutes and twenty-seven seconds. His attraction to Osamu died five seconds later simply due to association.

The thing is, he is a good enough player to know that Yako’s blocker’s timing is always off on the quick. But the damage is done. Miya Atsumu swipes a pink tongue against his upper lip as he walks six steps behind the service line. It doesn’t do anything to Kiyoomi’s heart.

He manages to hold on to this state of mind for the better part of ten years.

* * *

If the first law of motion is all about inertia, the second law is about acceleration. It goes something like this: a heavier object requires more force to cause changes in motion. Bigger objects require more effort to accelerate.

Just like his realization that he is attracted to men, prints of Miya’s Calvin Klein advertisement make their way into the Black Jackals’ locker room on an unassuming summer day. A delivery man slips into the gymnasium, calls out for one _Miya Atsumu_. Receipts are signed and packages are dropped off. Individual practice is interrupted by Bokuto and Hinata’s excitement, the two stopping spike drills to approach Miya instead.

“Tsum-tsum, is that—"

“It _is,_ but we’re in _practice_ ,” Miya hisses, ever the professional setter. Kiyoomi fails to restrain a small smile; diligence and concentration are traits he valued in others. “Captain will get pissed, let’s get back to—”

Except even Meian seemed to be thrown off by the package’s arrival and calls for a break ten minutes before the scheduled time. The two spikers follow Miya as he walks to the benches on the edge of the gymnasium. Kiyoomi considers ignoring the three to instead be productive and ask Inunaki for tips on how to receive serves off the Red Falcons’ ace, but out of the corner of his eyes he sees Miya ripping the envelope open and pulling out a magazine. Kiyoomi lets his own curiosity take over. He sits on top of his heels, positioning himself in front of the three men huddled over the magazine. His point of view has him looking at the magazine contents upside-down.

When you’ve known of someone for around eight years and _known_ them for the better part of the last one, there exists an accumulated set of opinions that are difficult to turn over. At fourteen, Kiyoomi had decided that neither Miya twin is worth infatuation. At fifteen, Kiyoomi finds out in elite volleyball training camp that Miya Atsumu is a good setter, tosses magnetically drifting to his open palm to make Kiyoomi’s kills more potent. In exchange, Kiyoomi gains a terrible nickname.

Sixteen-year-old Atsumu’s tosses enable Inarizaki to steal a set from right under Kiyoomi’s nose, further fueling his animosity. He scores three service aces in the third set by making Atsumu take a knee three consecutive times. Itachiyama wins; they shake hands and Atsumu’s grip is vice-like as he makes a declaration. He says, words heavy with the Kansai accent, that he will beat Itachiyama in the Spring tournament. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone so unlikeable in his life. Secretly, he looks forward to taking another set off the team of Japan’s best high school setter, preferably on center court.

Inarizaki doesn’t even make it past their first game against the team that took Wakatoshi-kun down. The promise during his sixteenth summer is one with no follow-through. Except Itachiyama doesn’t make it to the finals either. The unreasonable boiling of his resentment calms down to a simmer.

They play a few more games, participate in training camps together. Miya Atsumu is a foul-mouthed thorn in his side, but he’s a thorn that gives him the best tosses he can ever ask for. Maybe he is a rose. Japan’s best volleyball university recruits them both with generous scholarship packages, privileges that come with being the class of 2014’s number one setter and left-side hitter. Only Kiyoomi ends up going to university; Miya instead accepts the Black Jackals’ second-string recruitment offer.

One year later, Kiyoomi sees Miya Atsumu’s face all over the Puma store while shopping in Shinjuku. It serves as a reminder that Miya has a thriving modeling career and is rapidly rising as one of Division One’s best setters while he decided to take on a much longer route. Kiyoomi becomes the Inter-collegiate’s MVP, freaky wrists and nasty receives becoming something of an urban legend in the circuit. Rookie Kageyama Tobio edges out Miya Atsumu in terms of setter rankings. Neither of them make the 2016 Olympic team.

The next year, during the Kurowashiki tournament, their collegiate team is horribly defeated by the Adlers’ Kageyama-Ushijima tandem, knocking them out of the tournament before they got to play MSBY. Despite their defeat, a Jackals agent approaches him, and Kiyoomi verbally expresses his interest.

In his mind is a pot with eight years’ worth of Miya-shaped opinions, thoughts, and memories. It’s a heavy collection, filled with his ever-changing impressions of one of the men who had been, in one way or another, _there_ for the entirety of his elite volleyball career. The transitions from spectator to opponent to occasional-rival to teammate were always too swift, the stirs in their relationship so minute that nothing manages to overturn this metaphorical pot. Kiyoomi is a man of great inertia: while his head was filled with various tertiary and secondary Miya Atsumus, the primary Miya in his mind is still the bratty setter he first encountered in middle school.

The force of that single magazine page manages to overturn that damn pot. Everything spills, scalding.

Hinata _oohs_ and _ahhs_ over how modelesque Miya looks in black-and-white. He’s sitting down in an oversized armchair, legs wide open in an obnoxious manspread. His elbow is on the armrest, and his blonde head is on his palm. Miya is wearing only briefs, the outline of his bulge everything but subtle. Bokuto hoots, laughing at Miya’s ridiculous come-hither look, and it takes a herculean effort for Sakusa to shift his gaze away from the aforementioned bulge. Even upside down, Kiyoomi can tell that the look on his face, bedroom eyes and the slightest hint of tongue in between his lips isn’t ridiculous. It’s really sexy. He is overcome with the urge to sit on ad-Atsumu’s lap. He hasn’t even taken the time to admire ad-Atsumu’s torso.

The entirety of Kiyoomi’s world feels like it is burning.

There is a cosmic-sized shift that occurs, one that catches him completely off-guard. His heart adopts a rhythm faster than he is used to. Ad-Atsumu renders him completely silent, in stark contrast to Hinata’s and Bokuto’s excited chattering. Bokuto calls for the rest of the team to come over. _Look at Tsum-tsum’s underwear ad, he looks great!_ The team’s excited laughter fades into white noise in his mind.

A realization hits him like a meteorite: _why the fuck does he refer to the half-naked man in this magazine as ad-Atsumu when he only ever thinks of the real deal as Miya—_

Of course Miya notices his silence. His voice is laced with feigned confidence and Kiyoomi questions when he had begun to pick up his tells.

“Omi-omi, what do you think?”

Kiyoomi looks away from ad-Atsumu to instead look at Miya directly in the eye. There is the slightest hint of insecurity there, a need for everyone’s approval, including Kiyoomi’s. In his mind, the thought _Miya is a beautiful man_ morphs from objective fact to subjective opinion. _Exactly your type,_ he thinks for the first time since middle school _._ His throat grows dry, but he wills himself to speak.

“I told you,” Kiyoomi says slowly, voice hoarser than usual. “You don’t ever need to dehydrate.”

Bokuto and Hinata look at him in confusion. The self-conscious furrow in Atsumu’s brow gives way to bright eyes and a genuine smile.

That afternoon, the primary Atsumu in Kiyoomi’s mind changes.

* * *

Tryouts for the Black Jackals occurred during a cold December morning, three days after he submitted the first draft of his university dissertation. He took the earliest _shinkansen_ from Tokyo to Osaka, switching trains twice before getting off at Higashiosaka.

For lesser athletes, tryouts for professional teams are high-stakes, dreams on the line only to be rewarded with a benchwarmer position. For someone like Kiyoomi who’d embellished his impressive resume with yet another accolade—he’s the Inter-collegiate’s MVP for the second year in a row—tryouts are more like window shopping. Four out of the ten Division One teams had made bids for him to play for them next year. Tryouts just let him play with different official rosters so he can figure out his best fit.

The silence of the chilly Osaka air was immediately broken when Miya Atsumu caught him in the train stop five minutes away from the MSBY complex. It had been four years since their last training camp together. Kiyoomi observed that Miya grew several centimeters taller.

“So you came!” Atsumu said with a wave and a grin, words laced with his familiar Hyogo drawl. “I’ve waited all my _life_ ‘ta set for you, Omi-kun, so you better sign the contract tonight!”

“You’re lying,” Sakusa replied, scrunching his nose behind his face mask. For someone he hadn’t talked to properly in four years, snark flowed easily. “Chuo tried to sign us both and _you_ turned them down.”

Atsumu snorted, continuing to walk to the complex. Kiyoomi walked alongside him, thankful that his frigid hands did not have to hold his phone to follow maps. “Chuo is a nerd school. I ain’t ever got good grades like you do, Omi-omi, they would’ve kicked me out after the first semester.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t correct him: he got grades barely skimming average because most of his time was spent on the volleyball court. Let Miya Atsumu think highly of him if he wanted to.

“You could’ve chosen another school, though,” Kiyoomi answered.

“And go to a loser school? Everyone knows Chuo is the best, not just ‘cause _the_ Sakusa Omi-omi is on it. Congrats on the championship, by the way, caught set five on TV after training.”

The corners of Kiyoomi’s lips turn up in a small smile. It’s just so very Miya to try and consume everything volleyball despite already playing in the highest leagues himself. “Can’t disagree with that. Why the Jackals?”

“Adlers were saving their setter spot for Tobio-kun,” Miya answered with a slight roll of his eyes. “Name’s stupid too. _Schweiden_ , can’t pronounce that shit. And—” Miya opened the door to the complex for the two of them. “This place is just a short train ride away from home. And, well, ‘Samu’s shop is nearby.”

His voice, slightly wistful, caught Kiyoomi off-guard. Miya hadn’t seemed like the type to value sentimentality on the same level as his volleyball career. But before he could dwell on it, Miya turned right to make his way to the Jackals’ locker rooms, waving slightly with a brief _good luck today, Omi-kun!_

That morning, he showed off his flawless serve receives and the coaches jokingly offered him a libero position. Barnes and Bokuto targeted him with powerful spikes that made digs close to impossible. Kiyoomi considered these as opportunities to improve and practice with world-class teammates. That afternoon, Miya tossed to him for the first time since high school. It’s a perfect set that needed no second-guessing, close to the antenna but away from the net. A quick snap of his wrist as he slammed his palm against the ball, the cross shot hitting the ground in a way that made even Inunaki cringe.

“Nice kill,” Miya said, holding a hand up for a high-five. Kiyoomi frowned, ever averse to skin-to-skin contact. Miya noticed the hesitation and balled his hand to a fist instead.

Kiyoomi fistbumps him reluctantly. “You remembered?” 

“’Course I did, Omi-kun,” Miya answered with a smirk. “Told’ja I’ve been waiting.”

* * *

Kiyoomi fails to connect with Atsumu’s toss for the fourth time in a row, pissing off Meian, Coach Foster, and _Atsumu_ all at once. Atsumu stalks over to where Kiyoomi is standing, fox-like eyes burning with irritation.

“I never thought I’d say this to you of all people,” he hisses with a pointed glare. “But you are being such a _scrub_.”

Kiyoomi thinks that if he weren’t aware of his touch aversion, Atsumu would have fisted his collar by now. He tears his gaze away from the setter, allows himself to be benched. Shoyo takes his spot on the practice court.

The problem with realizing that the setter-who-part-times-as-a-model is attractive is that Kiyoomi ended up doing really stupid things that he should have left behind in high school, like entering the Lawson across the street from his apartment to buy the magazine with Atsumu’s ad as discreetly as possible.

Sleep was lost when he looked at the offending image for too long, first, tracing the ridges of Atsumu’s abs with his eyes, wandering up to his pecs with the nipples so erect it made Kiyoomi blush. He looks further down to the navel he suddenly wants to dip his tongue into, sees the faint trail of hair disappearing behind the band of his briefs, and further down, wondering what it would feel like to have his fingernails create crescent-shaped indents on the sun-kissed skin of Atsumu’s thighs.

But despite the advertisement being sexy as hell, every time Kiyoomi looked at his face, Kiyoomi feels that there is something off with the picture. It’s the distinction between ad-Atsumu and the Miya Atsumu that had taken residence in his head. Kiyoomi had stared far too long to try and figure it out, falling prey to insomnia and getting less sleep than required from a professional volleyball player.

When practice ends, Kiyoomi walks to where Atsumu is standing. “Sorry about today.”

“Don’t play like shit _ever_ _again_ , Omi-kun. I like you too much,” Atsumu says with a frown. Kiyoomi’s ears perk, but before he can pry, Atsumu’s eyes widen and the tips of his ears turn pink as he quickly corrects himself. “I mean, I like tossin’ to you and stuff.”

Realizing that he is into Miya means that this is his inertia now, the constant free-fall of his heart down his throat. Repression and compartmentalization, resisting overanalysis. He doesn’t think too hard about Atsumu’s slip of the tongue, nor does he consider why the awkward Atsumu with the bright eyes and red ears is the one that sticks out in his mind.

* * *

Seeing Atsumu in a new light for the first time in eight years sends him to a state where he just keeps _seeing_ Miya Atsumu. Like his existence is brighter than ever, and memories Kiyoomi had ignored or brushed aside suddenly become illuminated by a blinding white light.

For example:

That one April morning when he caught Miya filing his nails and moisturizing his hands in the corner of the locker room. The feeling of being taken aback by how much the setter actually cares about maintaining said hands.

“’Course it’s troublesome, but it’s all so I can give you the best sets, Omi-omi!” Miya said with a wink. In retrospect, the shock must have been butterflies.

And also:

The infinite number of times since signing with the Jackals and Miya would almost clap him on the shoulder in celebration. Almost, because he’s quick to remember Kiyoomi’s touch aversion, switching to light fist bumps or fox-like grins instead. The realization Miya is considerate above all things was one he’d constantly brushed away because of how much it contrasted with everything else.

Another:

On the last train from Nippombashi to Higashiosaka, a drunk Miya beside him on the train, head unsteady. Kiyoomi glared at Miya for a few seconds, wondering how he could be so irresponsible, before his irritation gives way to pity and Kiyoomi pulled the lightly swaying blond head to rest it on his shoulder.

“Is this really okay, Omi-kun?” Miya asked softly, coarse hairs tickling the side of Kiyoomi’s jaw. He thinks about it briefly— _is this okay, having someone else’s head fast asleep on his shoulder?_ He hears a snore before he can respond, the clean scent of menthol shampoo wafting from Miya’s head to Kiyoomi’s nose. _It’s not too bad. It’s fine._

But most strikingly, this:

The 20th of March, the day he moved into the MSBY apartment complex to begin training with the team full-time. The sound of the doorbell interrupting his unpacking of his second suitcase. Kiyoomi opened the door to see Miya on the other side.

Miya handed him an Onigiri Miya paper bag. “Happy birthday, Omi-omi!”

His face mask obscures his shocked expression, but a single raised eyebrow gives it away. “You know my birthday?”

“’Course I do, your profile is _always_ on Volleyball Monthly! I’ve a subscription, ‘gotta know opponents inside-out, y’know?” Miya said with a grin. Kiyoomi, still surprised at Miya’s gesture, was rendered speechless. He couldn’t do much more than nod.

Miya pointed to the paper bag in Kiyoomi’s hands. “And just so you know, that’s both my housewarming gift and my birthday gift! It’s convenient!”

“And your brother owns the shop,” Kiyoomi deadpanned. “You didn’t even have to pay for this.”

“Like you give a shit,” Miya answered, laughing. He spun around on his heels and raised his right hand in a wave. “If ‘ya need anything, I live just down the hall!”

Kiyoomi couldn’t resist the banter. “Like I’ll ever need anything from you!” he called out to Miya’s retreating form.

At lunchtime, Kiyoomi took a bite from one of the rice balls. He’d never really loved onigiri, not when he considered the thought of someone’s hands all over his rice as off-putting on some level. Still, he was hungry, and the thought of throwing away a gift—even if it was from Miya—was just too wasteful and unacceptable. The tart, tangy taste of _umeboshi_ filled his mouth, comforting and familiar even as he sits in a too-new space. A gentle, pleasant feeling started to bloom in his chest. That maybe 25 square meters in Osaka, with rowdy athletes as his next-door neighbors, can be home.

And at the end of these recollections, self-acceptance:

Attraction is a feeling that is easy to deal with, can be folded up into a secret he can hold close to his heart. Affection is much harder to handle, especially difficult when it threatens to burst out of his chest whenever Atsumu drags him to extra practice every other night to master a serve for the sole reason that _it’s_ _cool, Omi-omi, stop laughing!_ , in the moment when a vulnerable Atsumu admits that he’s unsure if he’s going to make the next Olympic team or any team at all, in every instance they walk home together after training, shoulders almost touching. Attraction is Kiyoomi being content with just looking from a distance. Affection makes him want to close the gap.

It took a Calvin Klein advertisement and the printed outline of a dick in front of his face for Kiyoomi to realize that it hadn’t been the damn dick _at all_. His feelings weren’t overturned by some great force of lust or want, not when Miya Atsumu is so much more interesting than just his body or his face. Miya Atsumu is kind, and effortlessly considerate, and funny. Miya Atsumu remembers how he likes his tosses even after four years of not playing on the same team.

Miya Atsumu knows his favorite food.

Maybe Kiyoomi’s heart had never been an immovable force of nature. Not when Miya Atsumu had been gently nudging his pot all along.

* * *

The third law of motion dictates that every action has an opposite and equal reaction. A force never occurs on its own. Standing on the ground means that the ground is lifting you up in return. Water propels a swimmer forward as they move their hand backwards. The realization that you have a bit of a crush on your teammate means that you should, in an ideal world, do something about it.

So Kiyoomi does what Kiyoomi should do:

He practices.

He shapes the words on his lips and tests them against his tongue: _Miya, you are distracting_ and _Miya, I enjoy your company_ and _Atsumu, I think I am a little bit in love with you._ All of the words feel like shanked receives on his forearms. They never feel right. He can envision the inevitable pity crossing Atsumu’s fox-like eyes and the way this pity morphs into a fake smile.

_I don’t feel the same way, Omi-omi._

Just like volleyball training, Kiyoomi practices how he’ll respond to heartbreak. There isn’t much he can do aside from prepare for all possible outcomes, and Kiyoomi, ever the realist, can only see negative ones in this scenario. There exists the too-real danger of his luck running out. He’s been lucky in too many aspects of his life; asking for luck with Miya Atsumu is asking the universe for too much.

The entire Japan is enamored with Atsumu’s existence, his sparkling teeth and perfect hair and the fact he never falters during a game. There is no way someone as charming as Atsumu would like him back, not when the setter is spoiled for choice. Diving receives hurt less because of his kneepads, the pain of spiking is mitigated by the callouses on his palm, volleyball shoes are heavily cushioned to withstand sudden landings. There’s no such thing as protective gear for his heart.

They train together often, and Atsumu becomes even more of a constant in his life. Atsumu masters his third jump serve. Kiyoomi becomes even better at serve receives. They each earn their spots in the starting roster for the fall V.League tournament. For once in his life, Kiyoomi finds himself unwilling to see things through.

* * *

The sweltering heat of summer passes, taking with it the irritating sound of cicadas and the way beads of sweat trail down the side of Atsumu’s neck whenever they walk home together from training. Unfortunately, the end of summer does not get rid of the sticky feeling of his heart in his throat whenever they are alone together or the ever-present warmth at the back of his neck whenever he barely manages to stop himself from staring at the blonde too long.

Kiyoomi has always hated summer for all the minor discomforts it brings. Everything about realizing that you _like_ your teammate isn’t minor. Feelings don’t change when seasons change, and summer passes to make way for autumn.

Fall brings with it Miya Atsumu’s birthday. And Kiyoomi has no idea what gift to give to someone who is, all at once, an old rival, a teammate, a friend, and a person that you _like_.

 _It really shouldn’t be this hard_ , Kiyoomi thinks glumly as he walks along the shopping streets of Shinsaibashi, partly in search for the perfect gift, partly to pass time because Atsumu told him to meet him downtown and he had nothing better to do but walk up and down the _shotengai_ to window shop. Wallets, shoes, shirts, perfumes—these were all things Kiyoomi could buy so that he can call it a day, but these were also all things Atsumu could buy on his own.

_This is stupid. Miya is just Miya._

Except Miya is not just Miya, Kiyoomi realizes while stopping in front of a sports store with Miya Atsumu’s hooded eyes and Cheshire-cat grin plastered all over the window display. While Sakusa Kiyoomi is a damn good athlete with a degree from an excellent university, Atsumu has always been more of an idol, omnipresent yet utterly unreachable. Miya Atsumu is a star.

Newton’s law of universal gravitation: every particle attracts every other particle in the universe with a force proportional to their masses and inversely proportional to the distance between them. Stars like the sun have a pull so strong they manage to keep entire planets in place despite being so far.

If Miya Atsumu is a star, Sakusa Kiyoomi is a planet. And unlike the sun, the distance between him and Atsumu amounted to practically nothing at this point. Miya Atsumu is a star that’s been near him since they were kids, time only pulling them closer and closer and now they’re something like volleyball partners. The V.league’s brand new deadly setter-spiker duo. Friends.

The force that tethers him down to earth is the same one that has him irrevocably revolving around Atsumu’s orbit.

No wonder he’s stuck.

Kiyoomi hates how everything about his irrational crush is somehow consistent with the cold, hard logic of physics.

A familiar _Omi-kun!_ shakes him out of his reverie. Kiyoomi looks behind him to see the tall setter walking towards him with a sheepish smile, right hand held up in a wave.

“You’re late,” Kiyoomi says, tone perfectly measured to cover up the blood rushing to his head at how good Atsumu looks in his early fall attire. The practiced smile Atsumu had on his athleisure posters did nothing to his heart, but there’s just something about Atsumu’s lean frame in earth tones instead of their usual training gear that makes him look so—

“It’s my birthday, you haf’ta forgive me,” Atsumu replies with a cheeky grin, taking up the space beside Kiyoomi. The now-familiar musky notes of Atsumu’s perfume wafts up Kiyoomi’s nose and he barely stops himself from short-circuiting.

He fails to stop himself from saying: “You look better in person than in your ad.”

Kiyoomi winces when he realizes the implications of what he said, but his hidden thoughts fly directly over Atsumu’s head. Atsumu pouts.

“You saying my ad looks stupid?”

Kiyoomi shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. Lately, his palms have been feeling bereft whenever Atsumu is around.

“…Yeah.”

The nighttime air is slightly frigid. Fall is the whiplash of hot mornings and cold evenings and being asked by your setter to go downtown with him on his birthday. It’s something that feels like a date but it isn’t a date because Atsumu didn’t explicitly say it is one. There is a quiet loneliness in walking beside the person you like without being able to hold their hand.

They walk the familiar paths to Onigiri Miya in silence, shoulders almost brushing. Kiyoomi breaks the silence.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, Omi-omi.”

“Why didn’t you ask the rest of the team out?”

“I—well—I usually spend my birthdays with Samu, ‘s why we’re going to his shop to greet that piece of shit, but taking the team out for rice balls on your birthday feels kinda weird, y’know? Like it’s just not party enough or whatever. ‘Cept when it’s you, ‘cause your favorite food is actually _umeboshi_ and I know onigiri isn’t your favorite, but y’really, really like ‘Samu’s onigiri—”

“I would never say no to free food from your brother’s shop,” Kiyoomi interrupts, smiling behind his face mask. “It’s the only reason why I agreed to spend time with you.”

“Exactly! I know, ‘s why I didn’t think it’d be weird to ask you, it’s always uncomplicated when it’s you,” Atsumu says, beaming, ignoring Kiyoomi’s jab. Kiyoomi’s heart flutters at the word _uncomplicated_ —how many times had he overheard teammates and acquaintances and friends call him _fussy_ and _dramatic_ behind his back? _Uncomplicated_ is barely even praise, and yet.

Kiyoomi’s legs are slightly longer, so used to the brisk pace of Tokyo’s city life that Atsumu has to take wider strides to keep up with his pace. Kiyoomi doesn’t like eating out in a lot of places, but trusts Onigiri Miya because of Osamu’s _ochazuke_ and the _umeboshi_ onigiri that’s just to his liking. Kiyoomi isn’t the best at friendship, or at conversation, and here Atsumu is, with him downtown, and even if birthdays lose novelty as you get older, today is still _Atsumu’s_ _birthday_ of all days.

Atsumu could have dragged him to the most expensive _ootoro_ restaurant in Umeda and Kiyoomi wouldn’t have said no.

Kiyoomi knows he’s difficult. _Uncomplicated_ is not a half-compliment he’s willing to accept when it’s Atsumu who always adjusts, little things that add up over time to unleash a cage of butterflies in his chest. A butterfly can fly because the air pushes up its wings, up his throat and past the seam of his lips—

The words are feather-soft, muffled by the fabric of his mask. “Remember when you came to my apartment on my birthday?”

“When you just moved in? ‘Course I do.”

“…Thank you for the gift back then,” Kiyoomi says quietly. “I have no idea what to give you today.”

“’Y’don’t have to pay me back for stealing onigiri from ‘ _Samu_ ,” Atsumu says with a laugh. “That was so bare minimum—”

By now, Kiyoomi knows that everything in Onigiri Miya is made fresh upon order. Atsumu couldn’t have stolen something that can’t be stolen in the first place. Atsumu asked Osamu to _make_ something for him and even then it’s only a step above bare minimum and still the thought retroactively makes his heart ache. He just wants it all to go away.

Kiyoomi stops in his tracks. They’re in the side streets of Nippombashi now, the roads less paved, the lights dimmer, different scents of food intermingling in the air. Atsumu notices a heartbeat later, looks behind his shoulder to catch Kiyoomi’s gaze.

They are _so_ near their destination. Kiyoomi can keep walking, greet Miya Osamu a happy birthday, eat three pieces of the world’s best onigiri, and then head home to Higashiosaka.

Kiyoomi could, but there are caged butterflies begging to be set free.

He starts talking.

“Pretend there are two people. One gives so much effort and is obviously amazing, and the other one who just exists, sometimes he tries but he really isn’t anything special. Who would you pick?”

“The amazing one, of course? Why’s this even a question, Omi-kun?”

“What if they’re the same person?”

Atsumu tilts his head in confusion. “How’s that possible, Omi-omi? A scrub is a scrub, an amazing person is amazing—”

“See, _normally_ I’d agree with you,” Kiyoomi says with gritted teeth. The face mask obscures his frown, but his eyebrows were scrunched enough to give his agitation away. He started this, now he has to see it to the bitter end. “But why is it that I don’t give more than two fucks about your advertisements, or the fact that you give me the best tosses, or that you’ve perfected three serves, but I can’t stop thinking of the day you gave me onigiri?”

“Look, I told you not to worry about that—”

“I’m not worried,” Kiyoomi snaps. “I like you. Probably liked you for a fucking decade but I didn’t acknowledge it until I saw your _stupid_ underwear ad that made me feel things even when it doesn’t do your smile justice!”

Atsumu’s eyes widen, lips parting slightly in shock. The lights of the ramen shop behind him illuminate his features. The scent of freshly cooked takoyaki assaults his nose. The air is much colder now that the sun had completely set. The two of them are two-and-a-half blocks away from their destination.

There is a harsh heat on the back of his neck, climbing steadily up to his ears. He’d practiced this confession so many times in his mind, but no amount of image training could prepare him for the day he’d burden his teammate with his unnecessary feelings on said teammate’s birthday. This heat is dread, imminent heartbreak, the feeling of his luck finally running out.

“Omi-kun…” Atsumu starts, but Kiyoomi doesn’t listen. Kiyoomi can only hear his own voice like a broken record on repeat.

_I like you. I like you. I like you._

Gravel pushes against Kiyoomi’s feet and the wind propels him forward. Kiyoomi runs as far as he can, as far as he can get from potential rejection, far, far away from Miya Atsumu.

* * *

The train ride home was unusually quiet and lonely, with only his guilt and the mental image of a shell-shocked, still handsome Atsumu keeping him company in the subway. Kiyoomi doesn’t know why he ran away. He could’ve stayed and listened to Atsumu let him down as kindly as possible. He could’ve handled it. Instead he created an even bigger mess.

He thinks it was the sheer force of his own confession that compelled him to move. His tongue had taken hold, a traitor spilling the secrets his heart could’ve kept locked away for longer—at least, to a time and place more appropriate for a confession. Atsumu’s twenty-third birthday, around five weeks before the start of season, definitely did not count as appropriate. Kiyoomi could only recoil at his own audacity.

Maybe Atsumu would be his considerate self and automatically understand him, like he always does. Except this time even Kiyoomi doesn’t think he deserves any consideration.

The unfortunate thing about moving miles away from his hometown for work is that in Osaka there’s really only one place Kiyoomi could run to, which is to his apartment, three doors away from Atsumu’s. If Atsumu took thirty minutes to eat his onigiri, and another hour to talk to his brother about the night’s events, it gave Kiyoomi only about an hour of relative peace. Less if Atsumu moves faster. In an hour or so, Miya Atsumu will stand in front of his apartment door, ring the bell, and demand an explanation. Kiyoomi passes the time with a long shower, before changing into his sleepwear and drying his hair.

And just as he expected—

Not even the hum of his hair dryer could mask the sound of five rings in succession, and then rhythmic tapping on his front door. Kiyoomi foregoes fiddling with the intercom, knowing exactly who is on the other side. He opens the door.

“Stop making so much noise, Miya,” Kiyoomi says coldly. He looks the other man up and down to take him in: the perfect styling of his hair messed up like he ran his fingers through it one too many times in frustration, his jacket askew, several dried bits of rice on the hem of his shirt.

And the look on his face: anger.

Like the time in middle school when Atsumu told off his middle blocker for being unable to match his tosses, or more recently, when Atsumu almost punched him because they couldn’t sync up during training.

Anger, with a tinge of disappointment.

_Why would you do that to me?_

_Why would you waste my time like that?_

Atsumu’s voice takes him out of his thoughts. “You didn’t let me say anything, Sakusa,” he says, flat. The use of his last name doesn’t escape Kiyoomi’s ears.

“Well, I was done. I said what I had to say,” Kiyoomi lies. “I have nothing else to tell you.”

“It’s my fucking _birthday_ , Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi looks behind him, at the clock hanging on his apartment wall. He really is an asshole. “No it’s not, it’s past midnight, good night, Miya.”

Atsumu’s voice rises in pitch as he responds. “You fucking owe me for the onigiri—”

“Lower your voice, our teammates are sleeping.”

“—You fucking owe me for leaving me in the middle of Osaka, alone, on my birthday, after I asked you out—”

Kiyoomi cringes, both at Atsumu becoming louder and louder and at the guilt that hit him again in waves. He’d never been the kindest guy, but Atsumu wasn’t wrong. He was a colossal jerkass tonight. Kiyoomi lightly grasps at the wrist of Atsumu in front of him to lightly tug him forward into the warmth of his apartment.

“Come in. You’ll wake up Captain if you keep yelling,” Kiyoomi mumbles as he lets go of Atsumu’s wrist and moves to lock the front door. “You can sit on the sofa. I can make us tea.”

Atsumu nods mutely and sits at the very edge of Kiyoomi’s couch.

The time it takes to make tea is not enough to get him ready for the subsequent conversation. Not with the existence of tea bags, not with his electric kettle boiling water quickly, not when these are motions he’d been doing since he was a little boy. The dark, inky swirls in the liquid are a stark contrast against the white china of his mugs, just like the relative peace of his life before attractive, considerate, skilled Miya Atsumu seeped his way into every inch of his existence.

Kiyoomi quickly hands the mug to the blonde, with a muttered “careful, it’s hot” for good measure. As if the sting of hot liquid would hurt Miya any more than the things he did tonight. He sits on the other edge of the couch.

Atsumu takes a sip of the oolong tea. Warm, comforting, familiar. _Go easy on me, Atsumu. I’m not used to this._ He sets the mug down on the coffee table and looks Kiyoomi straight in the eye.

“I like you too, O— _Kiyoomi_.”

Surely, Atsumu is just throwing back the butterflies Kiyoomi had forced on him. Kiyoomi almost drops his own mug. It’s a simple statement that he can’t comprehend.

“What?”

“I like you back, okay!” Atsumu repeats, the beginnings of a blush dusting the apples of his cheeks. “Don’t make me say it again, ‘s embarrassing. But not for a whole decade, that’s just weird.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I know you’re not deaf but I’mma be nice—I _like_ you. Like, since you joined the Jackals, and I’d always thought you were an amazing spiker but then you’re also surprisingly caring and funny— you’re pretty cool, Omi-kun,” Atsumu finishes lamely. He lifts his mug off the table and takes a sip longer than usual to hide his face behind the rim. “I just don’t know why you ran away.”

“I ran away because I wasn’t even supposed to confess,” Kiyoomi admits. He looks down at his mug and traces its rim with his index finger. “It doesn’t matter that I like you. You’re not supposed to like me back.”

It’s Atsumu’s turn to be confused. “The hell do you mean by that?”

“You can have anyone in the world. Everyone likes you. We’re too different. It just doesn’t make any sense that you’d choose me.”

“Omi, since when were these things supposed to make sense?”

Kiyoomi squares his shoulders and catches Atsumu’s gaze, challenging. “Why do you like me, Miya?”

“Jeez, are we talking about our feelings or are you testing me?” Atsumu sputters, “I told you, you’re caring and—”

“No,” Kiyoomi interrupts. “Not that. What caused you to like me? I told you, I realized I like you because of your ad—”

“Honestly, Omi, ‘s not like I was living my life without liking you then got hit by the feelings _shinkansen_ and suddenly I wanted to bone you,” Atsumu answers. “But maybe it started with the water bottle?”

“…That’s awfully bare minimum,” Kiyoomi says, echoing Atsumu’s words from earlier.

“Dunno, just shitting you here, but you’re pretty nice when you want to be. You’re fun to talk to and you don’t mind that I can be an ass. You’re fucking good at volleyball and you receive over half of my serves. That’s why I asked you out tonight. Why do I need a specific reason to like you?”

Kiyoomi licks his lips, the action not going unnoticed by Atsumu. “You’re right. You don’t.”

Because while Kiyoomi is a slave to inertia, so tethered to the rules of the universe and nature, these weren’t ideas Atsumu necessarily held close to his heart. The time he spent thinking that Atsumu would behave in the way Kiyoomi predicted he would—all of it, time wasted. How Kiyoomi operates isn’t how Atsumu would operate and that’s _okay_.

Atsumu isn’t Object A off a badly written Physics textbook. Miya Atsumu is eight years’ worth of shared memories and TV adverts and volleyball skills and questionable personality development.

Miya Atsumu is everything Kiyoomi wants and more.

Miya Atsumu wants him back.

Law number one: there are things that haven’t changed for a long time, like the setter-spiker relationship they’ve shared since they first got paired up in national team training camp all those years ago. Law number two: There are things that are hard to move, like Kiyoomi’s heart and Atsumu’s ego and his laser-focus on volleyball suddenly moving to make space for something 6 feet and four inches tall.

If the third law of motion states that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, then with the magnitude of Kiyoomi’s infatuation, Atsumu should be feeling things like hate towards him, maybe even apathy.

Instead, Miya Atsumu likes him back.

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi says. “In the process of overthinking things, I oversimplified things, and then I fucked it all up.”

Atsumu shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Does that mean you still like me?”

“…I don’t think that’s going to change anytime soon,” Kiyoomi admits. Atsumu beams and Kiyoomi’s heart melts a little bit, so he says the only thing he can think of saying. “Happy birthday.”

“’S not my birthday anymore. But all this is decent payback for the onigiri, yeah?” Atsumu stands from his position on the couch. “It’s late, I should go.”

Kiyoomi nods mutely as he watches him stretch his limbs, catching a glimpse of the ever-present dark band of Atsumu’s brand-name underwear. There is a whole-ass attractive man who likes him back just inches away from him. Desire takes hold.

“Wait.” Kiyoomi stands up. “No, it’s not. Close your eyes.”

“The fuck? If this is a surprise, I’ll have you know I’m no good with surprises, Omi-kun—” Atsumu says, closing his eyes anyway.

Kiyoomi leans down slightly, planting a feather-light kiss on Atsumu’s forehead.

“Atsumu. Happy birthday.”

(And so: the world keeps spinning, Kiyoomi’s heart keeps beating, and five minutes later Kiyoomi finds himself pinned down on the couch with Atsumu’s arms on either side of his head and saliva connecting their lips. He really shouldn’t be surprised.

It’s the natural course of action, how things are supposed to progress when the person you like, somehow, for whatever reason, for maybe no reason, likes you just as much in return.)

**Author's Note:**

> To say that writing this thing was easy would be a lie--not when it took six weeks and countless hours of me just avoiding it, haha! Getting them to fall in love (or like, or whatever) was a pain, but I hope you found this fic worth your time.  
>   
> Some important things:
> 
>   * I lived in Osaka for two whole years. I loved wandering the dimly-lit side streets of Dohtonbori at night; putting Sakuatsu there is just pure self-indulgence. Thank you for making MSBY Osaka-based, Furu-chan, my imagination is now permanently on fire.
>   * Thank you to Louise for birthing the ideas that led to this fic. This is your fault.
>   * Thank you to Sasha and to Shelly who have been holding my hand through writing this since day one. For the encouragement and the free serotonin--without you I would have just given up.
>   * Thank you to Christine for the beta/proofreading work! I'm glad to have converted you into an Atsumu fucker!
> 

> 
>   
>   
> As always, thank you for reading, and I'm on twitter as @bottomikun if you're up for a chat!


End file.
